


the sound of my heart pounding

by shineyma



Series: standing on the edge [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Kidnapping, Post-Episode: s01e11 The Magical Place, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 09:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5086315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma finds herself in trouble, and her team is in no position to provide assistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sound of my heart pounding

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my gosh, ANOTHER finished fic! And another one that I started forever ago, at that! This got its start in May, and I've been poking desperately at it for months, so it is SUCH A RELIEF to have it done. *confetti* Yay!
> 
> Title is from Icon for Hire's _Fight_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review--and extra gentle this time, if you please, because it's my first serious attempt at writing (some of) the Avengers and I'm a little bit nervous!

Jemma is in a spot of trouble.

Well. Perhaps _spot_ is a mild term. In point of fact, she’s been kidnapped.

Oh, except _kidnapped_ is a bit…dramatic, isn’t it? And inaccurate. She hasn’t actually left—or been removed from—her hotel room, so _kidnapped_ doesn’t apply. Probably.

She feels as though there’s a term that _does_ apply, but somehow it escapes her at the moment. This she attributes to her head injury, which is throbbing painfully and making it very difficult to concentrate. It’s a perfectly reasonable…reason…for not being able to think of a specific word, but she does so hate to be inaccurate.

She’ll ask.

“Excuse me,” she says. Her not-kidnapper, currently occupied with peering out the window, ignores her. “Excuse me!”

“I told you to keep your voice down,” he snaps over his shoulder.

Did she raise her voice?

“If you hadn’t ignored me, I would have,” she says, deciding to focus on the issue at hand. “I have a question for you, after which you may return to staring vacantly out the window like a dog waiting for its master to come home.”

Oh, dear. She didn’t actually mean to share that particular analogy, although it’s all she’s been able to think of since he first took up his position at the window.

It does accomplish one thing, however: her captor finally turns to face her. The expression on his face is likely intended to cow her, but having on separate occasions been faced with Grant Ward and Melinda May at the heights of their rage, Jemma is rather harder to intimidate than she was a few months ago.

“If you say one more word, I’m gonna gag you,” he threatens.

She gives him her best disapproving look, the one that never fails to make Fitz quail. And while her captor doesn’t quail, he _does_ relent.

“ _What_?”

“What sort of predicament would you say I’m in right now?” she asks.

He frowns. “…What?”

“Well, I was thinking that I’ve been kidnapped, but that’s not truly accurate, is it, as you’ve not taken me anywhere. I know there’s a word to describe these circumstances, I just can’t seem to think of it.”

“Uh.” He’s staring. Perhaps he can’t think of the word, either. “I’m…holding you hostage.”

“Yes!” she exclaims, pleased. “That’s precisely the word I was looking for. Thank you.”

What a relief. Accurate terminology is very important always, of course, but it’s doubly important in science—and in calling for rescue. And while there’s no science to be done in this hotel room (which is a pity; Jemma has always thought it a shame that one can’t request hotel rooms equipped with labs, the way can one request hotel rooms equipped with balconies), she fully intends to call for rescue shortly.

Of course, first she’ll need to deal with her captor.

It must be said that she’s not the most physical of people—her failed field assessment will speak to that. Had this happened even two weeks ago, Jemma most likely would have been a very cooperative hostage, willing to bide her time knowing that Fitz would raise the alarm when she missed their nightly call.

However, Coulson’s recent kidnapping (and, more importantly, torture) has made that option decidedly unattractive. She provided preliminary treatment in the desert as they waited for the medics to arrive, and she’s well aware that her own chances of being able to hold up under the sort of torment he received are slim to none.

She doesn’t know for _certain_ that her captor works for Centipede, but even if he doesn’t, there is a _lot_ of classified knowledge hiding in Jemma’s mind. She doesn’t dare risk being put in the position of having to share it. And, on a more selfish level, she just really doesn’t want to be tortured.

So. How to disable him? There are no night-night guns at hand, nor fire extinguishers.

There is, however, a very large and heavy lamp on the bedside table—and while she’s restrained, her hands are in _front_ of her, not behind. Which is a touch insulting, really—he could at least _pretend_ to see her as a threat—but just as well.

She’s not certain she’d be able to carry the lamp all the way over to the window, and in any case, she’s feeling somewhat unsteady after the rather hard hit to the head she took when her captor first broke into the room. Best to get him over to the bed, she thinks.

Well, he did threaten to gag her.

“And why, exactly, are you holding me hostage?” she asks. “Just out of curiosity.”

Her captor, who has already turned back to the window, ignores her.

“Please don’t ignore me,” she requests. “It’s very rude of you, and if you continue to do it, I’m afraid I’ll have to shout. And in light of the way my head is pounding, I would truly prefer not to.”

“Shut up,” he orders.

“No.” She narrows her eyes at him—and promptly regrets it as her vision swims. “You’re a very rude man, aren’t you? I don’t think manners are so much to ask when you’re holding an innocent scientist hostage—”

“That’s it,” he says, and stalks over to the bed. The roll of duct-tape he used to bind her wrists is sitting on the bedside table, and he tucks the gun he’s kept hold of this whole time into the waistband of his jeans before reaching for it.

She waits until he’s occupied attempting to tear off a strip of duct-tape, then reaches for the lamp.

What happens next does so very quickly. She swings the lamp at her captor, who sees it coming in time to dodge. Head spinning and heart in her throat, she tries again; he swears and catches the lamp before it makes contact.

They end up struggling over it, and between her previous head injury and the new one her captor manages to inflict to her temple with the sharp edge of the lamp’s base, things get a little confusing for Jemma. All she knows is that she must _not_ allow him to get the lamp away from her.

And he doesn’t. She can’t follow the exact sequence of events, but at the end of their struggle, her captor has been rendered unconscious. He’s collapsed next to the bed, motionless, and doesn’t so much as twitch when the lamp tumbles out of her hands to land not five inches from his nose.

He’s also bleeding all over the carpet.

“I imagine they’ll make me pay to have that cleaned,” Jemma muses, then stumbles into the bathroom and is promptly sick.

A glance in the mirror while rinsing out her mouth shows that her new head injury—unlike the other, which is merely a knot above her right ear—is an actual wound. It’s bleeding (heavily, as head injuries tend to do), so she can’t gauge its exact size, but it’s possible that it will need stitches.

“Oh, dear,” she says to the mirror. “This isn’t looking good.”

It takes some doing, but eventually she’s able to use a convenient pair of nail clippers to get a tear going in the duct tape around her wrists, after which she manages to remove it without undue difficulty (though _not_ without pain). That dealt with, she returns to the bedroom, where she hesitates at the foot of the bed.

What to do next?

She _could_ simply call the police, or even SHIELD, but she’s not certain that’s the best course of action. Considering the way her captor kept looking out the window, she suspects he was waiting for someone—someone who may be along at any moment.

It would be best to vacate the hotel and call for help elsewhere. Only she’s feeling very unsteady; she doesn’t know how far she would make it.

It would be so much easier to think if her head weren’t pounding so. And it doesn’t help that the adrenaline crash is beginning to set in—she can tell by the way she’s trembling all over and sweat is gathering at her temples. (It stings terribly at her wound.)

In the end, it’s simply not feasible to leave. She doubts her ability to make it to the lift, let alone the lobby, and thus here she must remain. So she perches on the edge of the bed (opposite, of course, to the side her captor fell on) and reaches for the hotel phone.

Luckily, the decision of which number to call is an easy one to make.

Once they were officially granted down time, Ward was the first of the team to leave. He only did so, however, after determining exactly where the rest of them would be spending their holidays—and then providing each of them with the phone number of a contact he had nearby, just in case they found themselves in trouble.

And she’s certainly in trouble now.

(For such an anti-social man, he has an impressive number of contacts. But perhaps all specialists do.)

Skye called him paranoid, of course, and even Coulson seemed somewhat taken aback, but Jemma finds herself very, very grateful for the precaution—and for the fact that he suggested she memorize the number, as she’s currently in no condition to dig out the slip of paper he wrote it on.

It takes three tries to dial the number in question; her hands are shaking terribly.

A woman answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

For a moment, Jemma is seized by uncertainty. She hopes Ward thought to inform his contacts that he gave their numbers to his team—this conversation is likely to be incredibly awkward if he didn’t.

“Hello,” she says. “My name is Jemma Simmons—um, Grant Ward gave me this number?”

“This is Romanoff,” the woman—Romanoff? _The_ Romanoff?—replies. “What do you need, Agent Simmons?”

Relief at the easy acceptance combines with shock—Ward has _the Black Widow’s_ number! Ward _gave her_ the Black Widow’s number!—and the throbbing pain in her head, leaving her entirely overwhelmed. As such, her words come out of her in quite the jumbled rush.

“I’m being held hostage,” she says, then immediately corrects herself, “Or, I was. He’s unconscious now, so I suppose the hostage situation is at an end. Only he seemed to be waiting for someone and it really was pure luck that I managed to knock him out in the first place, so if any accomplices show up the hostage situation will likely resume. And Ward said to call you if I got into trouble, which I do believe—”

“Simmons,” Romanoff interrupts, and Jemma bites her tongue. “Are you hurt? Do you know where you are?”

“Yes,” she says. “Two head injuries, one of which I believe to be at least moderately severe. Um, I’m at the hotel at—at—”

She can’t remember. She can’t think past the awful throbbing in her head.

“Simmons?” Romanoff prompts.

“I can’t…” Blood trickles into her eyes, and she swipes it away with the heel of her hand. “I’m sorry, I can’t think. I’m not feeling well at all.”

“That’s okay,” Romanoff says. “We’ve got a trace on your call; I’m on my way. Can you stay awake for me?”

“I don’t—I’m sorry, I don’t think so,” she says. Blackness is encroaching on the edges of her vision. Whether from her injuries or simply as a result of everything that’s happened over the past hour, she couldn’t say, but she’s fairly certain she’ll be losing consciousness soon.

Romanoff says something, but the words are far too quiet for Jemma to make out over the ringing in her ears. Blood is getting in her eyes again (oh, she should be applying pressure to her wound, shouldn’t she?); she attempts to swipe it away, but misjudges the distance and manages to knock her hand against her bleeding wound.

The last thing she knows is white hot pain.

 

 

“—SHIELD agents! SHIELD agents in _my_ tower—”

“Is it _your_ tower or _our_ tower? Make up your mind, Stark.”

“My tower! It is absolutely, one hundred percent—well, actually, eighty-eight percent, Pepper owns—”

“So the giant logo where your name used to be, that’s just…what, decoration?”

Unfamiliar voices drill into her ears, doing absolutely nothing for the pounding in her head. Jemma groans.

The argument cuts off abruptly, and the next—mercifully softer—voice she hears comes from much closer.

“Hey.” It’s a female voice—not precisely familiar, but not _unfamiliar_ , either. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

For a heartbeat, she’s puzzled—why would she think otherwise?—and then her memories align themselves, and her eyes fly open.

She’s lying on her back on a couch, and what she can see, from her limited vantage point, suggests that the room she’s in is unfamiliar…unlike the woman perched on the coffee table next to her.

“You’re the Black Widow,” she says dazedly.

What an odd day this has been.

“Natasha’s fine,” Black Widow—Natasha? Jemma _cannot_ call her Natasha, that is simply not happening—says. “How are you feeling, Agent Simmons?”

Nausea hits hard as Jemma starts to sit up, and—combined with the way the world reels around her—she nearly falls right off the couch. Strong hands steady her, and she blinks up at Hawkeye—Hawkeye! Of all people!—with a numb sort of shock.

“Like I’ve been hit with a lamp,” she says, in belated answer to Black Widow’s question. “Twice.”

“Could be worse,” Hawkeye offers. “Could’ve been three times.”

He releases her shoulders, but his hands stay close, prepared to catch her should she lose her balance again. Fortunately, her lightheadedness seems to have passed, and she manages to sit back against the couch without falling off of it. Hawkeye shifts back to sit on the coffee table, but—perhaps fearing she’ll yet faint—remains tense.

“Yes,” she says. “I suppose that _would_ have been worse.” Her head is throbbing horribly; she raises a hand to brush her fingers over her temple, where the pain is concentrated, and is met with the distinct sensation of a gauze bandage. “Have I taken serious damage?”

She assumes not, as she appears to be in a living room, rather than a hospital, but it seems the thing to ask.

“Nah,” Hawkeye says. “Just needed a few stitches, that’s all.” He gives her a frankly devastating grin. “Which is more than I can say for the guy who hit you.”

Jemma frowns. “Did _he_ take serious damage?”

She’s not certain how she feels about the prospect, but on a practical level, if he’s seriously injured, he won’t be able to answer questions about _why_ he was holding her hostage.

“He’ll be fine.” Tony Stark—Tony Stark! Fitz is going to be _so jealous_!—appears behind Hawkeye and drops into a nearby armchair. “Eventually.”

Oh, dear. That’s not encouraging.

“Does that mean he’s not fine now?” she asks worriedly. “Is he badly enough off that he can’t be questioned? I have my theories, of course, but—”

Her voice dies in her throat as Black Widow—oh, she’s _never_ going to be able to maintain her calm if she keeps thinking of them by their codenames. Surnames will have to do, even if it feels a touch blasphemous. And presumptuous, since B—since _Romanoff_ is the only one who’s even offered a name.

Should Jemma be pretending she doesn’t know who Barton and Stark are? Would that be polite or merely absurd?

…Oh, honestly. She’s been held hostage in her own hotel room, assaulted with a lamp, and apparently rescued by half of the Avengers. (Half of the Avengers! She briefly considers asking if Doctor Banner is around, as she’s been a fan of his work since university, but can’t quite come up with a way to do so without sounding rude—or worse, ungrateful.) This is no time for pointless social niceties. And it’s hardly _her_ fault they’ve not introduced themselves.

In any case, Romanoff is—among other things—very well known for her stealth skills, and she’s just demonstrated them admirably, because Jemma didn’t even realize she’d left the room until this moment, as she’s watching her return.

“Theories, huh?” Romanoff asks. “You have any idea who your attacker works for?”

“Centipede, I presume,” Jemma says, and then, as Romanoff hands her an ice pack, “Thank you.”

“You think you were kidnapped by a bug?” Stark asks, but his sharp gaze belies the confusion in his tone.

“The Centipede project,” she corrects, pressing the ice pack gingerly to the side of her head. “It’s a terrorist group attempting to create super-soldiers, mostly through use of threats and a complex serum. My team has been on its trail for months.”

“Kind of a leap,” Barton says. “You might be on Centipede’s trail, but I can think of a lot of people who’d like to get their hands on one half of FitzSimmons.”

“True,” she admits. “However, considering the fact that Centipede kidnapped and tortured my commanding officer just last week…”

“Last week?” he asks, trading looks with Romanoff. “That have anything to do with half of SHIELD getting called up to hit a bunch of labs?”

“It did turn into something of a production, yes.” Jemma’s getting the sinking feeling that she’s missed something, and it’s doing nothing for her headache. “Why?”

Romanoff exchanges another look with Barton, then pins Jemma with a serious frown. “What do you know about Centipede’s leadership?”

Well, that’s an odd question.

“It’s led by a person called the Clairvoyant,” she says. “They—”

“The Clairvoyant?” Stark interrupts. “Really? SHIELD is fighting a psychic bug?”

“The Clairvoyant isn’t psychic,” she says, frowning at him. She suspects he’s being deliberately ridiculous solely for the fun of it, the way Skye sometimes is, and this is hardly the moment. “SHIELD’s official position is that there’s no such thing. And there are no _bugs_ involved, Mr. Stark. The project gets its name from the serum’s delivery device, which is fused to the test subjects’ skin and bears some resemblance to a centipede.”

“Let me guess,” Barton says, ignoring the digression. “This person’s called the Clairvoyant because they’re suspiciously well-informed, especially about SHIELD.”

“Well, yes.” She looks from him to Romanoff, confused by their expressions—an odd mix of anger and resignation. “Am I missing something?”

“The man in your hotel room was a SHIELD agent,” Romanoff says bluntly.

Jemma stares. The ice pack slips out of her grip, but she makes no attempt to catch it. “I’m sorry?”

“Lorenzo Santoro,” Stark offers. A SHIELD file appears on the coffee table—which is apparently a table-top computer (something she really should have guessed, considering whose tower this is)—and Barton moves off of it, choosing instead to sit on the arm of Romanoff’s chair. “Level Four field agent. Which I _think_ means he’s like a low-rent version of my murderous friends here.”

“Not quite,” she says faintly, eyes fixed on the display. The man in the official photo is certainly her captor, but… “I don’t understand. Why would SHIELD send an agent to hold me hostage?”

“Why would SHIELD send an agent to spy on me and then stab me in the neck?” Stark asks. “Who knows why you people do anything.”

Romanoff ignores him. “Officially, they didn’t.” She leans forward and taps at the table for a moment, bringing up the relevant section of Santoro’s file. “He’s on leave from the Cube.”

“And unofficially?” Jemma asks.

“Unofficially, I really doubt this guy woke up this morning and decided that the best way to top off his vacation was by kidnapping a SHIELD scientist.”

She rests her elbows on her knees and buries her face in her hands. This is not at all helping her headache.

“You think someone within SHIELD is involved in the Centipede project,” she says into her hands.

“Easy to pretend you’re psychic when you’ve got security clearance,” Barton says, almost apologetically.

It’s a difficult prospect to swallow—but not as difficult as it might have been even a few months ago. Her faith in SHIELD has been somewhat shaken, of late.

Fitz and Ward were sent into South Ossetia, counting on an extraction plan that didn’t exist, and the person responsible for that—Victoria Hand—faced no consequences at all. They could have _died_ , and yet Hand just got away with it.

If _that_ could happen within SHIELD, is it really so hard to believe that someone might be running Centipede under their very noses?

Not to mention Coulson’s kidnapping: how _uninterested_ Hand (and that’s a thought, that Victoria Hand is involved in both incidents) was in finding him, focusing instead on locating Centipede.

If not for Skye’s independent search, they never would have rescued Coulson. Could it be that was exactly what Hand intended?

And if Hand is involved, there’s no telling who else might be.

She sighs and slumps back against the couch, letting her hands fall to her knees. “I suppose it’s a good thing I called you, then, and not SHIELD.”

“No kidding,” Barton mutters.

“Probably,” Romanoff agrees. She gives Jemma an evaluating look. “Why did you?”

“Ward said…” Realization hits her just as hard as the lamp did. “Oh, no. I need to warn my team! Do you have my phone? I don’t—”

Romanoff catches her by the arm before she can get more than halfway off the couch.

“I called Ward after you passed out,” she says, “and again when we ID’d Santoro. He said he’d pass the word along.”

“Oh,” Jemma says, sinking back down onto the couch. “Good.” Then she actually considers how those conversations must have gone and winces. “Oh, dear. Is he very cross?”

“He wasn’t happy,” Romanoff says blandly. Jemma admires her talent for understatement.

“He’s on his way,” Barton adds, glancing towards the wall of windows like he expects to find Ward dangling outside. “Should be here pretty soon.”

“ _More_ SHIELD agents?” Stark asks, incredulous. He aims a petulant frown at Romanoff. “You _multiply_. Like—like—”

“Like?” Romanoff prompts, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah, don’t leave us in suspense here, Stark,” Barton says. “What are we like?”

“Cockroaches!” The word fairly _bursts_ out of Stark, and Jemma can’t help at wince at the volume, even as she admires the violently triumphant gesture that accompanies the shout. She’s reminded of Fitz, a bit, and can’t help but smile at the thought of how her best friend might react to that comparison. “You multiply like cockroaches. _Murderous_ cockroaches. Murderous cockroaches _infesting my tower_! I need an exterminator.” He bounces to his feet. “JARVIS! Get me the number of a good exterminator!”

Just like that, he’s gone, wandering away to disappear into a nearby lift. Apparently, the conversation is over, and she’s left blinking at the abruptness of it.

“That’s his way of saying he’s gonna make sure SHIELD can’t get to you while you’re here,” Barton tells her. “In case you were wondering.”

“Ah,” she says, and gingerly rubs the back of her neck. Her whole head is one throbbing mass of pain; it’s quite unpleasant. “That’s very kind of him—you’ve all been very kind. Thank you.”

“You didn’t leave much for us to do,” Romanoff says. “But you’re welcome.”

“Yeah,” Barton agrees. “Takes all the fun out of it when you rescue yourself. Leave some for us next time.”

She smiles, despite how little she feels like doing so—it’s simply impossible not to return his grin. “Forgive me if I say I sincerely hope there’s _not_ a next time.”

“Fair enough,” he says, and then, “Your head hurt?”

“Yes,” she says. “Awfully.”

“Here.” Romanoff leans forward, holding out a bottle of a specific painkiller Jemma has often offered Ward and May in the wake of missions gone wrong. They always refuse; she, on the other hand, accepts it gratefully. “We didn’t want to give you anything while you were out. These okay?”

“ _Very_ , thank you,” Jemma says, with feeling, as Barton produces a bottle of water out of nowhere. “Although I’m afraid they won’t make me very good company.”

Drowsiness is a common side effect to this sort of painkiller, and she’s always been particularly susceptible to it.

“Don’t worry about it,” Romanoff says. “Ward’ll be a while. You should sleep while you can.”

“We’ll be around,” Barton adds, as Jemma swallows two pills. “Just give us a shout if you need anything.”

The conversation continues, for a bit, Romanoff and Barton offering reassurances about her safety and their ability to get to the bottom of this whole mess, but it’s not long before Jemma’s eyes grow heavy.

She curls onto her side, tucking her hands under her chin, and the last thing she feels before she drifts off to sleep is a lovely soft blanket settling over her.

 

 

She wakes to a warm, familiar hand on her shoulder, and she’s smiling before she opens her eyes.

Ward is crouching before her, and though he offers a small smile of his own in response to hers, his eyes are dark.

“Hey, Simmons,” he says, voice low. “Heard you got into some trouble.”

She pushes herself up to sit, shoving her blanket aside, and something in her chest goes warm at the careful way he watches her, obviously ready to assist should she need it. She doesn’t, though—her head isn’t spinning (or pounding) any longer. It’s as though several layers of cotton have been placed between her and her injuries; the pain is there, but it’s very far away, barely touching her at all.

Everything is lovely and soft. After her earlier terror, it’s exactly what she needs.

“A bit, yes,” she agrees. “I’m sorry to interrupt your holiday.”

“Don’t be,” he says, even as he tips her chin up to examine what’s likely, from the distant throbbing, some spectacular bruising spreading out from under her bandage. “I was just catching up on some reports—since _someone_ put in a recommendation that I be kept out of the field.”

“You were _shot_ ,” she reminds him, beyond exasperated. They went at least three rounds of this argument before the team went its—

The team.

“The others,” she says, sudden panic breaking through the lovely calm the painkiller granted her. “Are they—?”

“They’re fine,” he promises. His hand falls to her thigh, and he rubs it soothingly. “The Bus is on its way to pick up Fitz, then it’ll swing back to get Skye. Check-ins every half hour until they’re on board, then it’s gonna go to ground—lie low until I can get word to them about what exactly’s going on.”

She sinks back against the couch as relief sweeps her—only to jolt forward again as she remembers the revelations from earlier.

“Lie low where?” she asks urgently. “They can’t go to SHIELD, Centipede—”

“It’s okay,” Ward soothes. “Barton and Romanoff filled me in, and I passed the word along. The team’ll keep its distance from SHIELD. Not that I’m convinced it’s necessary.” He glances over his shoulder, and Jemma follows his gaze to find that once again, Romanoff has managed to enter the room without making her presence known—to Jemma, at least; Ward doesn’t look at all surprised to see her. “Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?”

She meets his eyes coolly. “You tell me; you’re the one who gave Simmons my number. She could’ve called the New York field office, but you told her to call me. Why was that, exactly?”

Ward tips his head, acknowledging the point, but says, “One mole in SHIELD doesn’t mean there’s a massive conspiracy. We don’t even know for sure he was working for Centipede.”

“We will soon,” Romanoff says. “He’s awake—ready for interrogation. You wanna do the honors?”

Ward smiles in a way she’s never seen from him before—sharp and vicious—but it fades as his gaze falls to his arm…which Jemma is surprised to realize she’s latched on to with some force. She lets go at once, embarrassed, only for him to catch her hand before it can get too far.

“Nah,” he says to Romanoff, even as he runs his thumb over Jemma’s knuckles. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Relief sweeps over her once more, and even though she’s aware it’s foolish (what is she expecting to happen to her, here in the heart of Avengers’ Tower?), she doesn’t bother to fight it off. It _will_ be a relief to have Ward at her side.

It’s not that she felt _unsafe_ with the Avengers to protect her— _that_ would be absurd. It’s just that the Avengers, no matter how famous (or infamous, as the case may be) they’ve become, are still strangers. She knows and trusts Ward, has been counting on him for protection for months now. He’s familiar.

She didn’t feel unsafe before, but she feels safer with him here nonetheless.

Romanoff smiles, and there’s something odd about it—something Jemma doesn’t know her well enough to identify.

“You sure?” she asks.

“Yeah.” Ward glances over his shoulder at her again. “Why? Lost your touch?”

“Not at all,” she says. “Just surprised. It’s not like you to ask me to do your job for you.”

He holds her gaze for a long moment. “Protecting my team _is_ my job.”

“Oh?” Her smile widens, and Jemma realizes, with no little shock, that what’s odd about it is that it’s _teasing_. “You _have_ changed, haven’t you?”

Ward twists to look pointedly around the room, then quirks an eyebrow at Romanoff. “I’m not the only one.”

“Touché,” Romanoff says, smile softening into something more like fondness. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“Appreciate it,” Ward says, and returns his attention to Jemma as Romanoff slips silently away. “So. Room for one more on that couch?”

“Oh!” How rude of her, to just leave him crouched on the floor for so long. “Of course.”

“Thanks,” he says, and pushes up to sit next to her. He settles between her and the left armrest, which is lovely because—in addition to putting him on her uninjured side—it gives her an excuse to turn her back on the windows at which she’s been doing her very best to avoid looking. (They are awfully, awfully high up.) “Come here.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and tugs her into him, and, surprised though she is by the move, she curls willingly into his side. It’s not like Ward to be so tactile—but then, perhaps it shouldn’t be such a shock. He’s held her like this once before, after all: at the base in Morocco, after their debriefing, when they were sent to the hangar and told to wait for their team like naughty children.

Beyond exhausted, Jemma ended up sitting down against a wall, and when Ward followed, he hugged her to his side just like this and let her fall asleep on his shoulder. He woke her shortly before the Bus landed, and they never spoke of it again.

Perhaps it’s merely how he expresses his worry: through touch, rather than words. If so, it’s very sweet of him.

And the physical contact helps. She’s had a very long day—between being held hostage, fighting off her captor, and her still-strong worry for her team…

Well, she’s been desperately in need of a hug for hours. It’s really very nice of Ward to provide it.

“The team’s gonna be fine,” he murmurs, as though following her train of thought, and she somewhat guiltily savors the sensation of his voice rumbling through her. “The Bus is only an hour from Fitz, and Skye’s not a high-value target. Even if she were, she’s resourceful—and I’ve been training her. She can protect herself ‘til the Bus reaches her.”

For a moment, Jemma wonders exactly why he keeps referring to _the Bus_ that way…only to roll her eyes at herself as she realizes he must be trying to avoid using Coulson’s name.

(And it’s just as well she actually forgot that the Avengers aren’t supposed to know that Agent Coulson is alive, otherwise she almost certainly would’ve managed to give away the truth by now.)

“Of course she can,” she says, more to hear it than because she honestly believes it. Not that she _doubts_ Skye—or Coulson or May or Fitz, for that matter. It’s just…it’s just been a very long day. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

“It is,” Ward says, and she can hear a smile in his voice when he adds, “But I hope you’re ready for the tantrums Fitz and Skye are gonna throw when they find out you got to meet the Avengers and they didn’t.”

She laughs a little as she cuddles closer to him. The warmth of his body is seeping into hers, and combined with the (still very active) painkiller, it’s becoming difficult to fight off sleep.

“It’s all right,” she says. “I have a plan.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks.

“Hmm.” She smiles into his shoulder. “I’ll distract them with the news that you know Black Widow well enough to have her personal number. They’ll forget all about me.”

Ward breathes a quiet laugh. “You play dirty, Simmons.”

“Only when it’s absolutely necessary,” she says. His hand is tracing little circles on her arm, and—quite against her will—her eyes drift shut. “And I think, after the day I’ve had, I deserve to be spared any temper tantrums.”

“That’s true,” he says, very quietly. “Barton told me you took the guy out yourself.”

“I had some assistance,” she says, “from a lamp.”

“Still,” he says. “You defended yourself _and_ kept it together—with two head injuries—long enough to call for help.” Jemma is far too drowsy to puzzle out his tone of voice, but that doesn’t stop her face from going hot as he concludes, “You did good. I’m impressed.”

“I was scared,” she confesses, tongue loosened by exhaustion, and his arm tightens slightly around her shoulders.

“That’s okay,” he says. “Fear’s good. Keeps you alive.” He pauses—for how long, she’s not certain; as sleep continues to creep up on her, every second stretches into an eternity. “Are you still scared?”

His heartbeat is steady. Soothing. “No. Not anymore.”

“Good.” Ward’s voice is soft. “Because there’s no reason to be. The team will be fine, and I’m not gonna let anyone else hurt you. Okay?”

She means to reassure him that she knows he won’t, but all she can manage is an agreeable sort of hum. She’s so tired…and he’s so _warm_ …

She thinks he presses a kiss to her hair as she loses her battle against sleep.

But perhaps it’s just her imagination.

**Author's Note:**

> Ta-da? *hides*
> 
> Before y'all ask, I do have plans for a sequel--although writing THIS took me five months, so who knows how long a sequel'll take?


End file.
